


Concerning Valar

by JehanetteProuvaire



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Shorts, headcanons, maybe I should have included more female Valar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:42:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21713188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JehanetteProuvaire/pseuds/JehanetteProuvaire
Summary: A collection of snippets about various Valar.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11
Collections: Lord of the Rings Secret Santa 2019





	Concerning Valar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Talullah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/gifts).



_Sing in me, Muse,  
Of the early days  
Of trees shining  
Of gold and silver light.  
Sing in me, Muse,  
Of before the Great Fall  
Of friendship and affection  
Of that which cannot be shadowed._

* * *

There are some of the elves who say that every song is the beginning of a new world. This is no heresy -- we are not all an Ilúvatar of one world or many -- but merely a curious belief. Few enough hold it. You might think it belongs to those who are careful in song, only giving voice when they think it necessary or when they know a song will be beautiful. It would be reckless or worse to create life carelessly.

If you thought that, you would be wrong. These are the elves who sing gladly, giving voice to old songs or creating new at a moment’s notice. Almost anything can inspire a new song in them. They sing for joy and beauty, and if their songs do create worlds, they hope those worlds are shaped by what they feel when they sing. Our world was created by song. Perhaps others can be as well.

Maybe it is a sort of heresy. If so, it is a gentle kind. It hurts no one and brings happiness to some. Who would want to end it?

* * *

_Sing in me, Muse,  
Of trees reaching the sky  
Of leaves whispering  
Of boughs fruit-heavy  
Sing in me, Muse,  
Of the shades of grass  
Of smaller growths  
Of that no less loved_

* * *

Yavanna never knew where she might find her sister. Vána would be darting through the surf of the sea at times, or singing her own song as she wandered, or running through the forests and laughing as she attempted to keep pace with fleet-footed Nessa. Where she was varied day by day, at times even hour by hour.

And yet, Yavanna was never entirely surprised at where she found Vána. There was always a feeling that yes, this was where she ought to be. Perhaps it was where she always had been. Vána seemed to belong wherever she was found, and Yavanna suspected she would not be at all surprised even if she found her younger sister at the bottom of the sea, admiring the strange fishes of the deep.

Now, Vána belonged in the light of the golden tree. Laurelin shone upon her, illuminating her golden-brown skin and making her look as though she was alight as well. 

It shone on the golden flower she held as well.

“You’ve made a new one,” Yavanna said, sitting beside her sister. She held out a hand, and Vána set the flower against her fingers. It had a firm green stem, and a long root stretched down, ready to plunge into the earth. Even without the golden light, its thin petals would have been bright yellow, almost glowing for all to see.

“I have,” Vána said with a smile. “I haven’t named it yet. I’ll wait to see what it wants to be called.”

“It’s beautiful,” Yavanna murmured. It was, and soft as well, as she brushed her finger across it. The petals -- there must be dozens -- tickled her fingertip, and she almost laughed.

Maybe it was her touch, or maybe the flower could sense her joy. Whatever the cause, the petals trembled beneath her finger, stretching outward and turning pale. The little flat flower had now become a sphere, and when Yavanna exhaled, the petals all flew away, drifting off in the air.

“Oh,” she said, feeling for a moment worried that she had ruined her sister’s creation. “Was it meant to do that?”

Vána laughed. “I don’t know! Perhaps. I hadn’t asked it yet.” She stroked a blade of grass, and its shape changed, stretching and thickening until it became a stem. From the top appeared another yellow blossom. “Let’s see if it does it again.”

It did, and so did the next. Until the light from Laurelin faded, the sisters sat together, scattering white seeds to the wind.

* * *

_Sing in me, Muse  
Of the lord of the sky  
Of far-hearing Manwë  
Of shadow’s fine brother  
Sing in me, Muse  
Of what joy he takes  
Of far-stretched skies  
Of wind under wings_

* * *

Manwë, he was called, and Súlimo by some, but right now he had another name, just as fine as the other two.

 _Eagle_.

He was lord of all that could fly, but especially of the birds (for Yavanna and her sister had taken the insects to their hearts, and Nessa was fond of bats), but that didn’t mean he would only watch over them and see their paths. He could, when he pleased, take on their forms.

It pleased him to do so often.

All birds pleased him, from the little hummingbirds to vast-winged albatrosses, but most of all he loved the eagles. Their sharp eyes put him in mind of Varda, and their strong wings were the envy of all other beasts. (So Manwë assumed, anyway. He didn’t know whether beasts could feel anything so complex as envy.) They were not as fast as some of the falcons, nor as silent as an owl, but he loved them nevertheless.

Who would not, given the chance? Sun above his wings and wind below. It was glorious.

Manwë banked, slowly spiralling toward the ground. His eyes darted about, catching everything below him. There were the two trees, shining and spreading their light over Valinor. There was Ulmo, just beneath the surface of the waves. There were Tulkas as Nessa, darting lightly across the grass, their feet not bending a single blade.

And there was Varda, seeming to shine with her own light. Perhaps she did so only in Manwë’s eyes. He had never bothered to ask anyone else.

Really, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was how she looked to him.

He landed, and Varda knelt beside him, running her fingers over his golden feathers. He tenderly ran his sharp beak against her cheek, careful not to hurt her.

Neither spoke. There was no need.

* * *

_Sing in me, Muse  
Of doom foretold  
Of heavy burdens  
Of heavier words  
Sing in me, Muse  
Of widening halls  
Of the love of the world  
Of a man and his home_

* * *

He didn’t mind being called Mandos. Some men might, but he was no Man. He was Námo, who kept the Houses of the Dead and pronounced dooms at Manwë’s bidding. He was above such petty wishes.

Besides, a part of him was Mandos. He could not explain it, for very often it didn’t have to be explained. The other Valar understood. It was the mortals who did not, and they did not have to understand anyway.

They tried, though. They asked questions when they arrived, and because he didn’t want them to bother Vairë, he let them speak to him.

(Secretly, he enjoyed the questions. There was something almost charming about even the most battle-hardened shieldmaiden looking up at him with wide eyes as she asked question after question, or a grim-faced sentry reaching out with wonder to touch one of his wife’s weavings. He had never felt paternal toward the mortals, but from time to time he did feel something stir within him. Something fond. Something… gentle.)

Aldrith, hair still bound up as though she would leap onto her horse at a moment’s notice, was distracted from his talk. He supposed he had been rambling, and he allowed his voice to slow. Aldrith didn’t notice. She only drew close to a weaving, reaching out her hand as though to touch it. Before her fingers would brush against it, she stopped, drawing back her hand.

“You may,” Námo said. Aldrith started, and despite her scar, her smile looked almost bashful.

“Are you certain?” she asked. “I wouldn’t want to dirty it.”

“Look at your hands.”

She did, and her fair cheeks flushed pink. There was no dirt on her hands. They were free from filth, and from the blood of the battlefield she had been on. It would take her time to remember that this wasn’t her body at all. Until then, Námo would enjoy the wonder on her face.

Aldrith ran her hands across the tapestry, absorbed in the colors and patterns. It wasn’t the traditional sort, which showed easily understandable pictures. It could only be understood by those who stood outside the world, like Námo and the rest of the Valar.

And, it seemed, Aldrith. Something had drawn her to this work.

“What do you see?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she murmured. “It seems familiar. It reminds me of Léored.” Pain twisted across her face before she banished it.

“Who is Léored?” Námo asked gently.

“My brother.”

And he was not here. Námo would remember him otherwise. Mandos would remember him. The halls knew all who passed through them.

He set a hand on Aldrith’s shoulder. She didn’t seem to notice. “If this is your brother’s life, you must not look too closely.”

“But I want to know…”

“It is not for me to pronounce his doom save at Manwë’s word.” And if Vairë had woven it, he would be able to see what it was. Perhaps even Aldrith would see. It would change nothing, but even so, knowing held its own weight.

Slowly, Aldrith turned away. In time, she would forget. Until then, Námo would be there for her.

Mandos would be there for her.

* * *

_Sing in me, Muse  
Of darkest depths  
Of lightless water  
Of chill and salt  
Sing in me, Muse  
Of what lives beneath  
Of sunless seas  
Of the well-loved strange_

* * *

Ulmo sat in the depths. Though he may not have been created there, he was nevertheless a creature of the ocean. Often (more often than the other Valar), he would forsake his other form to simply exist under the surface of the waters, drifting with the currents.

They were strange currents, down so deep. The sun had never touched them. What warmth they carried was from other sources, and it dissipated quickly. 

He sat by one of those sources now. (But _sat_ was not the right word. He _was_ by one of those sources. Though of water, he was not formless. This was simply not a form which could sit.) It was a vent, allowing heat from deep beneath the surface of the world to reach up. The water about him was nearly boiling, but he did not feel the heat, nor did the creatures he shaped.

He thrived on it. So did they.

Had he hands, he would hold one of his creatures between them now. A being of water needed no hands, however, so the creature was suspended in a network of delicate currents, holding it more gently than hands ever could. It was shaped, molded, from the shape of its body to the smallest elements of its being. He did not decide all for this creature. He only decided how it would begin.

It began beautifully.

Parts of its skin would glow. What color, he didn’t know. Most of his creatures shone blue, but he had seen one which had glowed red, a color none of the others could see. It was such a clever thing, and he had watched it hunt with delight, upsetting the old balance and creating a new. (There would always be a new balance. That was the way of the depths.)

It had great eyes, and a great jaw, with equally impressive teeth. It would be one of the great gulping fish then, the large devourers of the deep. He loved them.

He loved all of them. How could he not? They were all such wonders, all little bits of perfection. Who could look upon them and not love them?

The fish, completed, slipped away from his currents. He let it go, to see whether it would know where it could survive. Some did not. They did not survive long. Ulmo let them die. He could always make another, one which might be better, and those that did not survive could feed the creatures that crept along the ocean floor. They always wanted more food.

The ocean was a hungry place. Ulmo respected its hunger.

His fish swam to the warm water by the vent. Already it was hunting. Even as he watched, it tore into a smaller fish, sating itself.

Good. It would do well here.

Ulmo set himself to making more.

* * *

_Sing in me, Muse  
Of a father of stone  
Of crafting hands  
Of clever touch  
Sing in me, Muse  
Of affection sleeping  
Of deep-buried secrets  
Of love too strong_

* * *

He had to make them. There was no way not to. He loved them even before they existed and a love so strong could not be denied. It could only be kept secret.

It would have to be. Ilúvatar was the creator. He had his own creations, his own designs. Aulë’s would pale by comparison.

But his love did not. Aulë knew it. It was as great as Ilúvatar’s, filling up his heart in a way which would not be denied. If he had to keep his creations a secret, he would, but they would at least be his. They would know they had a father, one who had risked all for them.

So he labored silently, among the mountains and stones, waiting for the day when his beloved (his many beloveds) would open their eyes and see the sun above them. They would find it beautiful, but because they were his, they would find more beautiful still what they could craft with their own hands. He poured himself into them. They would be crafters, just as he was.

Perhaps, someday, they would make something nearly as perfect as they were.


End file.
